


You Probably Think This Song is About You

by Demorra (thebibliosphere)



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Ciri has two dads and two moms and you can quote me on that, Found Family, Gen, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Communicating, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Feelings, I'm not so much taking liberties with canon at this point, Reconciliation, Reunions, Swearing, although I suspect Tris is more of a fun wine aunt, and never calling back for a second date, angry bard emoting, as flirting outrageously, conveying your displeasure through song, crackfic, introducing your adopted daughter to your bard, the concept of stagemom!Jaskier grabbed me by the throat and now I'm in love with it, two pining idiots sharing a singular brain cell
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:27:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22541710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebibliosphere/pseuds/Demorra
Summary: He sighed inwardly again, wishing that someone else were here, like Yennefer, or Tris, or hell even —“The call of the white wolf is loudest at the dawn,” sang a familiar voice, engulfing the noise of the tavern and swaddling it in a deeply pleasant sonorous tone that demanded to be heard. “The call of a stone heart is broken and alone. Born of Kaer Morhen, born of no love, the Song of the white wolf is cold as driven snow. Bear not your eyes upon him lest steel or silver draw. Lay not your breast against him or lips to ease his roar, for the song of the White Wolf will always be sung alone. For the song of the White Wolf will always be sung alone.”“Fuck.” Geralt turned slowly in his seat, his yellow eyes falling on the familiar form of Jaskier, the bard’s fingers still strumming out the final chords of the song, seemingly oblivious to the applause and the scattering of coins being directed his way as he stared Geralt down angrily from across barroom floor.
Relationships: Geralt of Rivia x Jaskier if you squint
Comments: 252
Kudos: 3066
Collections: Witcher fanfiction





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I do not consent to this work or any of my work being uploaded or displayed through third party apps and websites. If you are viewing this work through an app that makes money from advertisements, please close the app and view my work for free on the original Ao3 page.

The noise of the town was overwhelming after so long riding alone together, but as prone toward solitude and the wilderness as Geralt was, Cirilla was another matter.

Walking alongside Roach, he watched as the girl began to slump forward over the horn of the saddle, her eyes opening and closing drowsily as she fought against the inevitable pull of sleep, a bone-weary, exhaustion radiating out of her in waves. It had been some weeks since they’d last stopped at a tavern, and Geralt was forced to concede it was likely time to lay their heads down somewhere softer than Roach’s saddlebags, even if it would eat dearly into their remaining coin. He sighed inwardly, mentally calculating how much money he had left from the alghoul job he’d managed to pick up back in the swamps. It was surprisingly hard to find paying work with a child in tow—not for the lack of work itself, but for his reluctance to leave her alone and unguarded at night. Not after the ordeal they’d gone through trying to find each other.

Beside him, Ciri began to slouch even further in the saddle, starting upright with a jolt, deciding the matter.

“All right, come on you,” Geralt said, leading Roach toward the hitching post outside the tavern, and lifting Ciri down from the saddle with all the ease of lifting a ragdoll. “Let's get some food and get you to bed.”

“I’m fine, we can keep going,” the girl protested weakly, but it was a testament to how worn out she truly was by how easily she allowed herself to be led, stumbling over the threshold of the tavern door, and only managing to avoid falling from the weight or Geralt’s armored hand on her shoulder.

“Hmm,” he hummed disbelievingly, leading her through the crowded room towards a table booth at the back, blocking her from the view of the rest of the tavern with his indomitable size.

It was unlikely anyone would recognize her, not with her distinctive blue cloak swapped out for a rough spun peasant’s garb, her features hidden under a healthy layer of dirt and hollowed by the many weeks of hunger and exhaustion she’d endured before he’d managed to find her.

Her white hair and piercing blue eyes still made for a distinctive look, however, and Geralt was taking no chances.

“What’ll it be?” the barmaid asked roughly, sidling over to their seats with an air of distracted disinterest.

“A room for the night if you have it, and what food do you have?” Geralt asked.

“Mutton stew.”

“A serving of that, for the child,” Geralt said, pointedly ignoring the face Cirilla pulled at being referred to as such. “And bread and cheese too, if you have it.”

“That it?”

“Wine.”

The barmaid shuffled off, leaving them alone together, and not for the first time Geralt lamented his own awkward inability to hold a conversation.

They’d shared many a night like this, sitting on opposite sides of squalid tavern tables or under the open stars of a campfire, talking in stilted conversations that usually started and ended with one of them being annoyed.

Him because he was a cantankerous old bastard ill-equipped to deal with the curious mind of a thirteen-year-old girl constantly asking questions, and her precisely because she was a thirteen-year-old girl, desperately seeking for someone to latch onto who didn’t have the warmth and emotional depth of a fucking teaspoon.

He sighed inwardly again, wishing that someone else were here, like Yennefer, or Tris, or hell even —

“The call of the white wolf is loudest at the dawn,” sang a familiar voice, engulfing the noise of the tavern and swaddling it in a deeply pleasant sonorous tone that demanded to be heard. “The call of a stone heart is broken and alone. Born of Kaer Morhen, born of no love, the Song of the white wolf is cold as driven snow. Bear not your eyes upon him lest steel or silver draw. Lay not your breast against him or lips to ease his roar, for the song of the White Wolf will always be sung alone. For the song of the White Wolf will always be sung _alone_.”

“Fuck.” Geralt turned slowly in his seat, his yellow eyes falling on the familiar form of Jaskier, the bard’s fingers still strumming out the final chords of the song, seemingly oblivious to the applause and the scattering of coins being directed his way as he stared Geralt down angrily from across barroom floor.

Mercifully Jaskier didn’t create a scene, instead, the bard finished his set, whipping the tavern up into a bawdy, raucous roar of approval with several rousing verses of The Fishmonger’s Daughter, and a new song Geralt hadn’t heard yet about the mercilessness of love and lust that managed to feel pointedly aimed in his direction that reduced several hardened miners and farmworkers to tears.

“He’s good,” Ciri said around a mouthful of stew, and Geralt turned his back, focusing his attention on his cup of half-drunk wine in front of him.

“He’s fine,” he said tersely, pointedly ignoring when Jaskier’s voice began to rise up again, filling the room with tales of old battles festooned with ideals of glory and blood, the sound of his lute thrumming out a furious rhythm that would have riled even the most passive of man to warfare.

When he was done, he stood in the middle of the room, breathless and layered in a sheen of sweat as the power of his voice carried the room over into a swell of applause that was nearly staggering. Anger clearly worked well for the bard.

Not that Geralt was looking.

Gradually the noise died down, and Geralt braced himself for the inevitable moment he knew would come, when Jaskier would approach them and start running his fool mouth off, making a pest of himself. But as the moments wore on, Geralt became acutely aware of the bard's lack of presence.

When he eventually turned to look, it was to find the bard gone, marked by the deafening sound of his silence.

“I’m just going to… I’m going,” Geralt began, then pointed a stern finger at Cirilla over the table. “Stay here.”

“Where else would I go?” the little princess demanded, but Geralt ignored her, intent of tracking down his mark.

He was just about to round the corner that would lead up to the stairwell when Jaskier reemerged, distractedly counting the paltry pile of coins in his hand. “Oh, I’m sorry,” the bard began when they walked into each other, the startled look of confusion on his face melting away into a sullen frown when he saw who he’d collided with. “Oh, it’s you. Beg pardon, _Witcher._ ”

Geralt, about to open his mouth, paused, taken aback by the venom that had been injected into that single word. Jaskier had never said the word like that before. Like he _hated it._

“I… hello,” he began falteringly, taken aback when Jaskier stepped around him, heading for the bar without so much of a backward glance.

 _What in the ashen hells was going on?_ It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Geralt was supposed to say something lousy, and then Jaskier was supposed to retort with something witty and bounce along after him like the ~~loveable~~ idiot he was.

He turned, blinking at the bards back, then moved to follow him to the bar. There was little space amidst the crowd, but when a Witcher wanted to make room for himself, people damn well got out of the way. Jaskier however didn’t so much as twitch, keeping his eyes stoically forward as he drank his cup of wine in silence.

“Good crowd,” Geralt commented lightly, testing the waters. When Jaskier continued to ignore him, he tried again. “Certainly got them going with the fish fucking.”

A muscle in Jaskier’s jaw twitched, and the bard turning hardened eyes toward him. “Is there something I can do for you, Witcher?”

“I…” Geralt faltered again, entirely at a loss for words. Time was he would have given anything for Jaskier to shut up, and now he found himself willing to cut off his right arm just to get him to talk. “Jaskier…”

“Yes?”

“I know things got bad there, toward the end with… with Yen and…” Geralt trailed off, gesturing emptily in the air to try to convey the whole fucking mess that was his life. When he failed to elaborate further, Jaskier set down his wine cup, turning bodily toward Geralt with his arms crossed over his chest.

“Is that it?”

“Is… what it?”

“Is that all you’re going to say? ‘Things got bad’? Is that your pathetic excuse for an apology?”

Geralt blinked. “An apology?”.

Jaskier scoffed, rolling his eyes to the ceiling. “Unbelievable. Un- _fucking­_ -believable. You know, for someone who's been around as long as you have you really are a child.”

He turned to walk away, and Geralt reached out to put a hand on his arm. The bard whirled with impressive speed, pulling his arm away and resuming his cross stance.

“Go away, Geralt,” he said sternly, as though talking to a disobedient dog that had decided to follow him home. “Go back to doing what you do best, being a sullen, lonely bastard. Just the way you like it.”

Geralt opened and closed his mouth, feeling like a gutted fish as the bard turned to walk away again. “Jaskier, I’m…” The bard stopped, turning around slowly to look at him expectantly. “I know I said some things… lots of things,” he amended, “that were… hurtful. To you. I was… speaking from a place of anger and…” _pain, loss, grief, **loneliness…** _“I was speaking out of my ass. And what I am trying to say is I’m… I’m sorry.”

Jaskier remained unmoved however at this heartfelt outpouring of emotion, the frown marring his brow turning even further downwards as he continued to stare at the witcher in resolute silence.

For someone as emotionally expressive and buoyant as the bard, it was an unnerving expression, and Geralt found himself irrationally breaking out into a cold sweat.

“Hmm.” Geralt winced at the sound of the low hum, watching as the bard eventually moved, uncrossing his arms and bringing his hands to rest on his hips as he straightened up. “Yes, well… I acknowledge your apology, Geralt of Rivia,” the younger man said, and Geralt flinched inwardly at the use of his full name. “But that doesn’t mean I accept it. I will need some time.”

“I understand.” Geralt nodded, watching as Jaskier turned and walked away from him, leaving Geralt feeling somehow lonelier than he’d ever been in his entire life.

Rounding the corner of the tavern hallway, Jaskier waited until he was out of sight, counted to twenty and then silently punched the air, improvising a jig as he danced on the spot. Taking a moment to collect himself, he straightened out the line of his doublet and swept his foppish curls out of his face.

“Geralt,” he called magnanimously as he reemerged in the doorway with an elaborate flourish, “I’ve had time to think about it…”

The witcher glowered at him, presumably to cover the quirk of a smile pulling at that sullen mouth of his. “That was quick.”

“Yes, well, I’m quick-witted, everyone knows that,” Jaskier responded blithely, weaving his way back through the crowded tavern to the table where the girl had been left sitting and was mulishly pushing her stew around the wooden bowl with a despondent spoon. “But I want to make something absolutely clear. I’m not doing this for you, I’m doing this for that poor waif of a child you’ve evidently kidnapped.”

“I did not—” Geralt began to snap, then softened his tone when Jaskier half turned, raising a challenging eyebrow at him. “I did not kidnap her. She’s my… she’s the child surprise.”

“Who is he?” Ciri asked, wrinkling her nose as Jaskier dropped into the booth beside her, forcing her to move over as he reached for the pitcher of watered-down wine Geralt had been drinking in place of feeding himself. It was clear things had gone to absolute shit without him.

“He’s—” Geralt began, but was cut off by Jaskier.

“I’m your new tutor,” he said, smiling brightly in the face of her evident skepticism. “but you can call me Uncle Jas.”

“Tutor?” Ciri repeated back, aghast.

“Uncle?” Geralt demanded incredulously.

“More wine!” the bard called toward the bar, waving the empty pitcher for emphasis. “More wine, and some warmed goat’s milk for my friend. And what do you want?” he asked, turning quite seriously to Ciri, who despite herself, cracked a smile.

“Now, tell me everything, I want to know absolutely everything,” the bard demanded, a quill and sheaf of parchment seeming to appear from thin air as Geralt resumed his seat, a low hum rumbling ominously in his giant, barrel chest.

But he was smiling, so Jaskier took that as a win.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “And you’re sure you’ve got everything?” Geralt asked for the umpteenth time, still hovering by the door like the world’s biggest, deadliest mother hen in existence.
> 
> “Yes, yes.” Jaskier waved him off, strumming idly on his lute as he sat slouched in the room’s only armchair. They’d retreated to Jaskier’s room after supper. Geralt had been reluctant at first, but Jaskier had pointed out the inanity of renting another room for the night when his was already paid for. The Witcher had checked every inch of the space, ensuring the windows were barred and the door had a sturdy lock on it. Or as sturdy a lock as could be hoped for in such a place as this.
> 
> “Dandelion…”
> 
> “Iron for humans, silver for monsters,” Jaskier cut him off, rolling his gaze exasperatedly toward the hulking, white-haired figure in the doorway. Though he did have to admit, the weight of the daggers was reassuringly heavy on his belt loop. He didn’t often carry weapons, at least, not openly. But contrary to what Geralt thought of him, he did know how to use them.

“Are you really a tutor?” Ciri asked, making a face as the warmed goat’s milk was set in front of her.

“No,” Geralt said, just as the furiously scribbling bard replied, “Yes.”

He glared Geralt down over the table, and Geralt clamped his jaw shut.

“I studied the trivium and quadrivium arts at Oxenfurt University for four years before becoming a professor there. So yes, I am a tutor.”

“You taught for a year and left,” Geralt muttered into his cup of wine.

“I left because I hated it, not because I wasn’t good at it,” the bard countered levelly, scribbling a title across the top of the page with a flourish. Geralt squinted at it upside down. It read _The White Wolf and the Lion Cub of Cintra._ “You know my heart has always wanted to follow the song. Don’t drink the water.” He reached out without looking up to move Ciri’s water cup out of her reach and pushed the goat’s milk forward. “There’s been contagion in the town.”

“But I don’t _like_ goat’s milk,” Ciri complained, but quietly as she picked up the mug and took a hesitant sip. The face she pulled would have been comical, if Geralt’s attention hadn’t been fixed fully on the bard.

“What kind of contagion?”

Jaskier set aside his quill at last and looked up at him. He still looked like the young man with bread in his trousers who had started following Geralt around all those years ago like a lost puppy. It was remarkable really, how little he’d aged. But there were subtle telltale signs here and there, like the dent between his brow as he frowned. Geralt was struck with an irrational desire to reach out and smooth it away.

“The usual, stomachache, fever, chucking your guts up. Excuse me,” he turned towards the barmaid who was passing the table, smiling winningly in the face of her scowl. “But would it be possible for a little morsel of honey for the little one? Or perhaps some sweet spices?” The barmaid’s eyes swiveled to Ciri, and the little princess smiled meekly, leaning in to Jaskier’s sweeter than syrup act. The barmaid’s eyes softened, and she nodded curtly, earning herself another brilliant smile from Jaskier that made all the candles in the room seem dim. “Thank you so much, you’re too kind.”

Geralt rolled his eyes at the double act. “And you think it’s the water?”

Jaskier shrugged, turning his attention back to the Witcher. “Usually is, with these sorts of things. Though if you ask me it’s more than just a bad well.”

“Why’s that?” Geralt asked, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned back against the solid oak of the booth.

Jaskier shrugged again, reaching for his cup of wine and swirling the contents thoughtfully. “I saw some things when I entered the town… Well, heard really. But two men have drowned in the last month, fallen from their horses. Supposedly. And… a girl was snatched from the riverside. Two nights ago.”

“Drowners,” Geralt muttered, a sinking feeling deep in the pit of his stomach. That would certainly explain any putrefaction in the water. Especially if they’d gotten into the sewers or wells. He looked around the grim faces of the tavern with fresh eyes.

“That’s what I thought,” Jaskier replied. He sipped from his wine, pulling a face. It was practically vinegar as far as Geralt was concerned, but it’d be sweet as honey in comparison to the elixirs he’d have to swill together to take on a drowner. “Are you going to go looking for it?” Jaskier asked, picking at the end piece of a crust of bread still left on the table. “I’m sure the locals would be lucratively grateful.”

Geralt glanced around the room again, then back to the table in front of him. His eyes landed on Ciri, who was heaping golden spoonful’s of thick honey into her drink with the abandon of a child left to her own devices. “I can’t.”

That seemed to surprise the bard, the younger man’s head jerking up as though pulled by the string of a startled puppeteer. “Can’t? What do you mean you can’t? Are you not _the_ Geralt of Rivia? Did you lose your swords?” He made a show of trying to peer around the side of the table, and Geralt rolled his eyes and gave him a gentle kick under the table.

“I can’t, I have… prior responsibilities,” Geralt said meaningfully. He tried to nod toward Ciri without doing anything so obvious as to actually move his head. But it didn’t work.

“He means me,” Ciri said, swiping a milk mustache away from her upper lip with the back of her hand with a derisive little sniff. “He frets like an old mother hen whenever he can’t see me.”

“Really?” Jaskier said, a mischievous gleam lighting up those blue-gray eyes. “An old mother hen you say? What else would you say about him?”

“You are my responsibility and I will look after you,” Geralt intoned. “And that means not losing you again.”

“So, what are you going to do?” Ciri fired back tartly, reminding him all too well of her grandmother at that moment. “Stop being a Witcher and turn into a nursemaid?”

Geralt was on the verge of saying something no doubt regrettable when Jaskier spoke up again. “I could stay with her.”

“ _You_?” He hadn’t meant for it to come out quite so incredulously, and he regretted it the moment he saw the look of hurt flash briefly over that annoyingly ~~handsome~~ expressive face. But the bard rallied admirably.

“Yes, _me_. I know you think I’m a…” He gestured wildly through the air. “A feckless idiot…”

“I didn’t say that,” Geralt murmured.

“But I assure you I’m capable of keeping a single child out of trouble for a night.”

“Clearly you don’t know this one.” Geralt said, giving Ciri a stern glower over the table that fooled absolutely no one as to how fond of her he already was. He snorted when she stuck her tongue out at him, then sighed, turning his attention back to Jaskier. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate the offer it’s just… there are people who want her. Bad people.”

“Yes, I rather assumed there might be,” Jaskier replied patiently, as though Geralt were being foolish. He likely was. “And yet still I offer. If you need me…” He shrugged mildly, losing some of his intensity and retreating behind a feigned air of indifference. “Well, I just thought I’d offer while I’m still around. I wasn’t planning on playing here much longer. Drowned men seldom tip.”

The implication that Jaskier wasn’t going to come with them when they moved on made something hot tighten and twist in Geralt’s chest. Somehow he’d assumed things would just go back to the way they’d been before. Evidently that had been presumptuous.

“I thought you were going to be my tutor?” Ciri asked, voicing her query with a stricken look, her blue eyes wide. She’d only been around him for an hour, but already she’d formed an attachment to the brightly dressed dolt; with his quick, witty words and his easy smiles and laughter.

Geralt sighed. “Fuck. Where did you say the girl was snatched?”

“And you’re sure you’ve got everything?” Geralt asked for the umpteenth time, still hovering by the door like the world’s biggest, deadliest mother hen in existence.

“Yes, yes.” Jaskier waved him off, strumming idly on his lute as he sat slouched in the room’s only armchair. They’d retreated to Jaskier’s room after supper. Geralt had been reluctant at first, but Jaskier had pointed out the inanity of renting another room for the night when his was already paid for. The Witcher had checked every inch of the space, ensuring the windows were barred and the door had a sturdy lock on it. Or as sturdy a lock as could be hoped for in such a place as this.

“Dandelion…”

“Iron for humans, silver for monsters,” Jaskier cut him off, rolling his gaze exasperatedly toward the hulking, white-haired figure in the doorway. Though he did have to admit, the weight of the daggers was reassuringly heavy on his belt loop. He didn’t often carry weapons, at least, not openly. But contrary to what Geralt thought of him, he did know how to use them.

“Dandelion?” Ciri queried, wrinkling her nose at him as she sat on the very edge of the bed.

“Stage name,” Jaskier said by way of explanation, his fingers continuing to pluck aimlessly at the strings of his lute. “Alias, if you will.”

“I’ll be gone two days minimum, four at most if the weather doesn’t hold,” Geralt interjected. “If I’m not back by then…”

“Yes, yes, move on and you’ll meet as in the next town over _._ ” Jaskier completed the other man’s sentence, rolling his eyes dramatically for emphasis. “Honestly Geralt, you’d think I’d never been on the run before.”

“Why were _you_ on the run?” Ciri asked, clearly interested.

“Quicker to ask him why he hasn’t been,” Geralt muttered, his dour expression softening as he turned fully towards Cirilla. “I’ll be back, I promise.” He said gruffly, and Jaskier watched in surprise as the tiny princess wrapped her thin arms around his torso, a gesture the Witcher returned with haltingly unfamiliar movements; like a man who had lived for centuries deprived of such simple gestures of affection and was trying to remember how to perform them.

It was almost enough to bring a tear to the eye.

“Do I get a hug?”

Geralt turned, giving Jaskier a hard, yellow-eyed stare. “Be good.”

“Oh don’t worry, I’m sure she’ll be just…”

“I wasn’t talking to her,” Geralt informed him gruffly, a wry twitch pulling at his lips as he stalked past Jaskier toward the door, giving him a (probably) friendly punch on the shoulder as he went.

When the door closed behind him, Jaskier dutifully got up and locked it. He didn’t drag the dresser in front of it, though the Gods knew Geralt’s fussing had put him on edge. He turned around to find the princess watching him.

“You should get some sleep,” he said, resuming his vigil from the armchair and picking up his lute again. He busied himself with retuning the already perfectly tuned strings. “It’s late.”

“I’m not tired,” Ciri replied, and Jaskier raised an eyebrow at her. The poor thing was near ashen with exhaustion, her blue eyes red and dull in the candlelight. But he couldn’t blame her for being on guard. Not after everything Geralt had told him.

“Well, might as well make yourself comfortable anyway. No point in both of us sitting up all night.”

“You don’t have to you know.”

“I know.”

“But you’re going to.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because Geralt asked me to.”

“No, you offered,” Ciri countered sharp, and Jaskier caught the first real glimpse of the knife-bright intelligence glittering behind those pale blue eyes.

She’d be a formidable orator, he realized, with the right mentor of course.

“Yes, I suppose I did.”

“Why?”

“Because… you’re important to Geralt.”

She tilted her head at him, as though that alone were not sufficient an answer.

When he failed to say anything else however, she shrugged, crawling her way up the bed and burrowing down under the covers; still clothed in her filthy peasant garb. And that would be the _first_ thing that would change, Jaskier decided. It was one thing to be on the run and trying to fit in through artful dishevelment, it was quite another to look like you’d fallen asleep in a midden three nights in a row. Though knowing Geralt that was perhaps entirely not that far off from the truth.

Silence stretched on for a time, punctuated by the crackle of the fire burning down low in the hearth. After a time Ciri asked timidly, “He will come back, won’t he?” and Jaskier heard the brave tremble of unshed tears quavering in her voice.

“He’ll come back,” he said with certainty, his fingers absently plucking out some half remembered melody from childhood as her eyes began to close; the notes rising and falling softly like the breath before a sigh, teetering on the edge of sleep. “He always does.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What the fuck are you thinking? She’s supposed to be hiding,” he hissed between gritted teeth, and Jaskier gave him a wide-eyed look of innocence as he gestured to where Ciri was standing at the front of a captive audience, her mane of blonde hair hidden under a green velvet cap, and her lanky frame swamped by one of Jaskier’s red doublets. She looked like an urchin that had robbed a color-blind silk merchant.
> 
> “And where better to hide her than out in the open. Who’s really going to look twice at a bard’s apprentice? Who in their right mind would ever think the lost lion cub of Cintra would be singing bawdy songs in a roadside tavern?”
> 
> Geralt blinked at the shaky logic, his brain latching on to the last thing to stand out. “You’ve been teaching her bawdy songs?”
> 
> “Only the good ones,” the bard said in a hurry. “Nothing at all to do with fish…”

“Is Dandelion really your stage name?”

“One of them, yes,” Jaskier replied absently, leafing through his manuscript notes spread out across the tavern table.

“What’s another one?” Ciri asked around a mouthful of the sweet, sticky bun she’d talked him into buying for her lunch.

“Buttercup,” Jaskier replied, still just as distractedly as he flipped the page and continued to scribble.

“Buttercup,” she echoed back incredulously, and Jaskier spied the amused wrinkle of her nose out the corner of his eye.

“I take it you have thoughts?”

“Well, they’re sort of… delicate, aren’t they?” Ciri asked, talking around her food again. Jaskier was fairly certain Princesses had better table manners than this, but it was amazing what a short time around Geralt could undo.

 _Like all my sense and reason,_ he lamented, suppressing a sigh. Then scribbled those words down, because they sounded good.

“They’re poisonous,” Jaskier said offhandedly, scoring through a particularly bad line of verse, and rewriting it in the margins.

“Really?”

“Most plants are poisonous if you underestimate them.”

Ciri made a thoughtful noise, and Jaskier considered it a minor victory in the constant battle of wills that had been waging since the moment she’d got up. Her questions seemed endless, not that Jaskier really minded. He just simply allowed his tired brain to wander and let his mouth do the answering. It had served him well thus far.

“I really don’t need a nursemaid you know.”

“Oh?” Jaskier set his quill down, rubbing at his eyes. It was clear he wasn’t going to get any thinking done right now.

“I can look after myself.”

“I’m sure you can.”

“And I certainly don’t need a tutor.” She gave him a look that was likely meant to be haughty, but the effect was somewhat ruined by the indignity of being thirteen and having to look up at him. “I was taught by the finest minds in Cintra.”

“And I’m sure they thought they were very fine indeed,” Jaskier replied levelly, resisting the urge to reach over the table and pat her on the head. He wasn’t unconvinced she wouldn’t bite him. There was something feral about the girl, an edge to her mannerism that he doubted had been there before when the finest minds in Cintra had sat her down and taught her how to be a princess. The real world could do that to a person. Especially it’s cruelty. “Well, for what it’s worth, I wasn’t planning to teach you anything you can learn about in books. But if you’re really sure you don’t want to know what it is…”

“What do you mean?” Ciri asked, curious despite herself, and Jaskier suppressed a smirk.

He stood up with a flourish, the exhaustion from his sleepless night dispelled with a well-practiced, enigmatic smile and a grand bow fit for the Emperor of Nilfgaard himself. “I refer to the time-honored traditions of the humble, traveling bard, held secret to the ancient craft of storytelling and song since time immemorial.” He doffed his cap toward her, then whipped it down onto the table, tossing a smattering of coins into the faded silk lining. “ _Id est_ … singing for your supper. I’ll play, you beg. Sound fair?”

It hadn’t been a bad day, all things considered. They were once more holed up in Jaskier’s room for the night, the windows barred against the wind and rain as another storm rattled its way across the plains. Jaskier was sat in the chair again, his chin resting on his hands as he definitely did not dose. Men in their early forties did not dose in armchairs. They merely rested their eyes.

“Is he normally away this long?”

Jaskier opened his eyes, focusing again on Ciri who was sat cross-legged on the bed. She was counting her share of the coins she’d earned from passing the cap around during Jaskier’s set. It was a paltry sum of money, but from the way she kept letting the coins drip rhythmically between her fingers he could tell she was enjoying it. He suspected she’d never had coin of her own before; a strange phenomenon enjoyed by the wealthy who had no need of it, and endured by the poor who did. The novelty would soon ware off he was sure. After all, it had for him.

“Who?” She gave him a patient look, and Jaskier roused himself further from his definitely-not-a-dose. “Oh, Geralt. Sometimes. Drowners can be tricky things. He’s likely just making sure he gets the job done right the first time, so he doesn’t have to come back later.”

“He got bit by one… back in Sodden. Did he tell you that?”

“No, he did not.” Jaskier frowned, then dismissed it with a shrug. “But then again Geralt’s been bitten by lots of things. You should ask him about the time he got swallowed whole by a Selkie Maw…”

Ciri snorted, rolling her eyes. “He’d probably just grunt at me; you know the way he does.” She furrowed her brow into a deep frown, her lips thinning into a mulish line as she imitated the Witcher’s deep, rumbling growl. “Hmm.”

“I always thought of it more as a _hmm_ , and then, of course, there’s _hmmm,”_ Jaskier said, doing his own impersonation, prompting them both into a fit of giggles before lapsing back into congenial silence once more.

“Will _you_ tell me the story about the Selkie Maw,” Ciri asked hopefully, and Jaskier shrugged.

“Yeah, all right.”

The next morning broke clear and bright, and Ciri begged to be allowed to leave the inn and explore the market. Jaskier, beginning to feel a touch claustrophobic himself, agreed. For one thing, they’d need to start gathering supplies. Geralt had been gone three days now, and while Jaskier remained untroubled by the lack of his arrival just yet, he also thought it prudent to start stocking up lest they need to move on without him.

At least he’d left them Roach to carry it all.

“Do we really need all this?” Ciri asked.

“Contrary to what Geralt believes, soap is a necessity, not an option,” Jaskier responded, reaching into his coin purse and handing over four pennies. He’d been doing a lot of that this morning, and while Geralt had given him some coin, the meager weight of his purse was rapidly dwindling. Towns like these only paid good coin for a few short nights, and Jaskier had already been stretching out his welcome.

The influx of refugees from Sodden certainly hadn’t helped matters much either.

“Stay close to me,” he instructed when Ciri began to wander, her gaze drawn toward a stall where a blade with a mother of pearl handle glinted temptingly. It was a pretty thing sure enough, but there was a difference between a pretty blade and a good one. “You’d do better with a silver butter knife than that one.” He said.

“But butter knives are blunt,” Ciri protested, skipping along to keep up with his stride, and prompting Jaskier to slow his pace a little. He was all too used to being the one stepping quickly to avoid being left behind.

“Silver doesn’t need to be sharp to kill a monster.” _Or a man for that matter,_ Jaskier added mentally. It all depended on the location and how determined you were.

“I cut a doppler with silver,” Ciri said conversationally, trying to sound casual, but unable to fully hide the depths of how pants-wettingly terrifying the experience had been.

“Yes, Geralt mentioned something about that,” Jaskier murmured, slowing his pace yet again and eyeing a group of surly-looking men who were similarly eyeing him.

They looked like all the other refugees spilling into the town, their expressions worn down even more so than the boots falling apart on their feet. But their eyes were alert, like men looking for something.

Or someone.

They might have just been the average rogues spying an easy target to rob. But then again, maybe not.

“This way,” Jaskier said, reaching out to take Ciri by the hand and moving quickly down a muddied alleyway.

“Where are we going?” Ciri asked, glancing reflexively over her shoulder.

“Shh,” Jaskier hissed, darting off down another alley and cursing when it led to an alcove. He chanced his luck with one of the doors, grateful when the latch gave way under his hand—the blessed luck of the skald. “Quickly in here.”

He ushered Ciri into the darkened room beyond, a storeroom of some sort, and followed after her, closing the door firmly behind them. There was no lock, so he opted to hold the latch in place, listening intently for the muffled sound of footsteps approaching.

“Are you sure it was her?” A gruff voice said, and Jaskier felt Ciri stiffen beside him.

“I’d know that little blonde chit anywhere,” said another.

“Well, where did they go then?” asked a third voice, close enough to the door that Jaskier could feel the vibrations through the wood. “They can’t have gone far. Check the doors.”

Loosing the iron dagger from his belt, Jaskier braced himself against the door, holding it firmly in place. The latch rattled in his grip once, then twice, and then went slack. “Locked,” the voice on the other side said. “Any luck over there? Keep looking, they can’t have got far.”

The sound of footsteps gradually receded, and Jaskier let out the breath he’d been holding. On instinct he reached for Ciri, the tiny girl latching onto him firmly and burying her face against his doublet. “It’s all right, I’ve got you,” he said, trying to sound reassuring. “You’re okay…”

“I’m fine,” Ciri said, clinging to him tighter as she shook. “I’m okay.”

“Pack up your things,” Jaskier said in a breathless rush, rummaging around the room for his belongings and throwing them into his satchel. “We’re leaving. Now.”

“But what about Geralt?” Ciri asked, similarly out of breath from their flight back to the tavern. “We said we’d wait until tomorrow.”

“He’s a smart one…” Jaskier thought about it. “Most days. He’ll know to look for us. Besides, if he comes back here and finds out I stayed put when some burly men came looking for you he’s going to hang me up from the clocktower by my toes. If it comes to it I can make sure he knows how to find us… Blonde.” He blinked, turning back round to look at her with fresh concern.

“What?” Ciri asked.

“The man in the alley, he said he recognized your hair.”

Ciri’s hands went defensively to her pale blonde tresses. It was more tangled than wavy now, but it was still a distinctive feature. Perhaps they could dye it… or cut it off.

Or perhaps it didn’t have to be quite so drastic.

“Ciri,” Jaskier allowed himself a smile, the plan taking form in his mind like a ballad. “Have you ever heard the story of Viola of Toussaint?”

It was some days later when Geralt returned to the Griffin’s Head, drenched and carrying what felt like half the stinking mire with him in the weave of his cloak.

“You killed it then?” the innkeeper asked when he stepped over the threshold, and Geralt turned to give him a yellow-eyed stare.

“Would I be standing here if I hadn’t?” he asked, his tone conveying quite clearly he wouldn’t have been standing at all if he’d failed.

The innkeeper gave a jerky nod and reached under the bar to retrieve a heavy-looking purse. “Our thanks, Witcher.”

Geralt caught the purse mid-air, not bothering to check the contents. It felt heavy enough, and people seldom attempted to trick Witchers with false coin. It was bad for survival when you swindled the only bastards mad enough to go toe-to-toe with creatures like drowners in a town surrounded by swamp. It also helped that he had twenty years of that fucking song following him around…

“You’ll be moving on then…” the innkeeper said, hesitantly hopeful, but too polite to outright state that Geralt’s presence was no longer welcomed.

“Soon,” Geralt said, sitting down on one of the empty barstools and nodding toward one of the wine flasks at hand. The tavern was empty at this time of day, but it was also devoid of a certain bard and his blonde-haired ward, and Geralt didn’t dare hope it was because they were staying out of trouble. “There was a bard here when I left…”

“Oh aye, him,” the innkeeper said, setting a cup of wine down in front of Geralt and continuing to buff the countertop with a rag. “Colorful chap with the feather in his cap. He cleared out yesterday. In quite the hurry as I recall. Said you’d be back though. He said you always come back to collect.”

“Did he say where he was going?”

“Only that he was moving on. Him and the boy.”

 _Boy,_ Geralt blinked. “Which way did they head?”

“East, if that helps. Funny thing you should ask,” the innkeeper carried on, picking up a glass and buffing it with the same cloth he’d used on the counter. “There was a group of men in here last night asking for him as well.”

“What’s so funny about that?”

“They insisted he was traveling with a girl. But I told them they must be mistaken. There was no girl with him. Never was. Leastways, not that me or any of my girls remember…” The innkeeper gave Geralt a slow, sly look, and Geralt wondered how much Jaskier had bribed the man for his complicity.

He drained the cup of wine, and reached into his coin purse, pulling out two large silver coins. “For the wine. And if anyone asks which way the bard went?”

Sweeping the coins up into his meaty hands, the innkeeper gave him a broad, beaming smile. “Which bard would that be, Witcher?”

“That’s what I thought.”

Stepping back out into the watery sunlight, Geralt headed for the crossroads and the road that would take him East. He’d have to walk through the night if he wanted to catch up to them at their agreed upon place, but he could stop and meditate for a while if he had to. He was just about to set out when a stagecoach arriving from the opposite direction came trundling into the town square, the coachman whistling an all too familiar tune on his lips.

Geralt hesitated for a moment, then about-turned and headed West instead.

It was some two days later when Geralt reached The Wayside Inn on foot, the sight of a familiar horse stabled out front thawing some of the bone-deep dread he’d refused to allow himself to feel up until that moment. He paused only briefly to give Roach a pat on the flanks, pleased to see that she was well brushed and fed; her nose buried contently in a sack full of oats.

Dusk had fallen, and the tavern windows were alight with the warm glow of candlelight, the sound of music and song floating out into the night. Geralt pushed open the door and was brought up short by the sound of familiar lyrics.

“ _Toss a coin to your Witcher, oh valley of plenty, oh valley of plenty…_ ”

Jaskier turned toward the draught created by the open door, an audible sigh of relief leaving him at the sight of Geralt standing there. “Geralt. You made it. I was starting to get worried.”

“Not worried enough,” Geralt ground out, stalking toward him and shoving the bard up hard against the tavern counter as Ciri’s high, piping voice continued to carry through the tavern.

Jaskier held up his hands defensively but didn’t flinch back when Geralt leaned even further into his space. “Now, Geralt, there’s no need to get upset. When was the last time you slept? You know what you get like when you haven’t had a nap…”

“What the fuck are you thinking? She’s supposed to be hiding,” he hissed between gritted teeth, and Jaskier gave him a wide-eyed look of innocence as he gestured to where Ciri was standing at the front of a captive audience, her mane of blonde hair hidden under a green velvet cap, and her lanky frame swamped by one of Jaskier’s red doublets. She looked like an urchin that had robbed a color-blind silk merchant.

“And where better to hide her than out in the open. Who’s really going to look twice at a bard’s apprentice? Who in their right mind would ever think the lost lion cub of Cintra would be singing bawdy songs in a roadside tavern?”

Geralt blinked at the shaky logic, his brain latching on to the last thing to stand out. “You’ve been teaching her bawdy songs?”

“Only the good ones,” the bard said in a hurry. “Nothing at all to do with fish…” Geralt hummed unhappily but let Jaskier go. The bard straightened up, tugging the line of his doublet straight and leaned conversationally in toward Geralt’s ear. “She’s rather good, in a raw sort of way,” he said, sounding absurdly proud. “There’s real potential there.”

Ciri looked up, her eyes seeking out Jaskier in the crowd. The bard offered her an encouraging thumbs up with one hand and reminded her to smile with the other, his foot continuing to tap along with the melody of the song as though he couldn’t help himself. Her expression broke out into a beaming grin when she saw who was standing beside him, and she belted out the last few final verses of the song to the sound of appreciative applause.

And for the first time in twenty years, Geralt found himself compelled to clap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can pry Stage Mom Jaskier from my cold, dead hands.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Plan?” Geralt asked, verbose as ever.
> 
> “Yes, you know. The plan.” Jaskier picked up the stick he’d been using to stoke their campfire with and used the scorched end to prod Geralt on the shin. The Witcher ignored him studiously and continued to skin the rabbits they’d caught for their supper. “What are you going to do with her?” Jaskier pressed. “I presume you don’t mean to keep traveling from town to town for the rest of her life.”
> 
> Geralt paused what he was doing and turned yellow eyes up to Jaskier. They seemed to glow brighter in the firelight; they always did. But his jaw was working, a true telltale sign that he was upset. Other people mulled over their thoughts. Geralt chewed them up before letting them exit his mouth. After a considerable silence, he said, “I thought I might take her home.”
> 
> “Home? Home where? Rivia?”
> 
> “Kaer Morhen,” Geralt replied succinctly, and Jaskier’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline.
> 
> “Kaer Morhen,” he repeated back, lowering his voice as though speaking of something holy. “The Kaer Morhen?”
> 
> Geralt arched a patient eyebrow at him and resumed his work with the rabbits. “I wasn’t aware there was more than one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had a couple of requests for more StageMom!Jaskier and his adopted daughter Ciri feat Geralt of Rivia, so here you got fam. And no worries about the other characters. They'll be showing up soon.

“So, what’s the plan then?” Jaskier asked when they’d stopped to make camp for the night. Ciri was a little way off down at the river, enjoying what sounded like a bracing cold bath from the way she was swearing. Jaskier was moderately proud of how quickly her vocabulary had expanded.

“Plan?” Geralt asked, verbose as ever.

“Yes, you know. _The plan_.” Jaskier picked up the stick he’d been using to stoke their campfire with and used the scorched end to prod Geralt on the shin. The Witcher ignored him studiously and continued to skin the rabbits they’d caught for their supper. “What are you going to do with her?” Jaskier pressed. “I presume you don’t mean to keep traveling from town to town for the rest of her life.”

Geralt paused what he was doing and turned yellow eyes up to Jaskier. They seemed to glow brighter in the firelight; they always did. But his jaw was working, a true telltale sign that he was upset. Other people mulled over their thoughts. Geralt chewed them up before letting them exit his mouth. After a considerable silence, he said, “I thought I might take her home.”

“Home? Home where? Rivia?”

“Kaer Morhen,” Geralt replied succinctly, and Jaskier’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline.

“Kaer Morhen,” he repeated back, lowering his voice as though speaking of something holy. “ _The_ Kaer Morhen?”

Geralt arched a patient eyebrow at him and resumed his work with the rabbits. “I wasn’t aware there was more than one.”

“I thought it was in ruins. Do you mean to tell me I’ve been traveling with you this whole time, and not once did you ever mention that the infamous Kaer Morhen still stands?!”

“It’s upright if that’s what you mean.” Geralt shrugged, mumbling. “Most of it…”

“Kaer Morhen,” Jaskier repeated almost wistfully. He’d always wanted to see the place. He’d heard the stories, though seldom from Geralt himself. Jaskier had thought it was long gone now, as many people did. Oh, Geralt had _told_ him he was going to winter there, but Jaskier had always just assumed it was code for ‘I’m tired of listening to you talk, I’m going to go hibernate in the mountains like a bear till I realize I miss your dazzling wit’, or, something to that effect. (A bard could hope.) He frowned suddenly, holding his fingers up as though he could do the math on his fingertips. “Kaedwen’s a long way away,” he said, and Geralt grunted in return. “We’ve barely made it to the Tamerian border.”

“I’m aware,” Geralt replied tersely, throwing chunks of rough-cut meat into the cooking pot, the fat sizzling loudly. They’d borrowed a couple of carrots from Roach’s stash to make a meager stew; eking out the last of their rations for as long as possible. They were two whole days away from the next town, and there was only so far and so fast the three of them could move with only Roach to take turns carrying them.

Geralt drew breath again, his shoulders slumping in an uncharacteristic display of exhaustion. “I was hoping to find… I was hoping we could portal our way there,” he said, and Jaskier caught the meaning of the words he hadn’t said.

He’d been hoping to find Yennefer.

Jaskier quashed down the surge of ire that welled up in his chest. As far as he was concerned, they’d made their peace about what had happened atop that mountain, and he was determined to keep it that way. But Jaskier also hadn’t missed all the tiny ways Geralt kept trying to say sorry either. It came in the form of small, non-verbal tokens; a companionable nudge here, an extra cup of wine there. He even let Jaskier run his mouth as much as he liked without telling him to shut up. And Jaskier especially hadn’t missed the warm arm that had curled around him the night before last when the fire had grown low and he’d begun to shiver.

And really, it made sense that Geralt would turn to a mage for something like this. It would remove any number of obstacles from their path, in particular, the path itself, which by all accounts was wholly treacherous. But considering the news coming out of Sodden, Jaskier wasn’t so sure they’d find a mage willing or able to help them anytime soon.

Not even the terrifyingly powerful Yennefer of Vengerberg.

He didn’t point out she was likely dead. That would have just been unnecessarily cruel. So instead he said, “We should get a cart.”

“A cart?”

“Or a wagon, with a top. Something to carry all three of us. And an extra horse, so Roach isn’t doing all the work. We could take it in turns driving through the night so we wouldn’t have to stop as much.”

Geralt arched another eyebrow at him. “A wagon. And an extra horse.”

“Yes.”

“When we barely have enough coin left for food.”

“Yes, well. You’ll just have to kill a few extra monsters,” Jaskier said, reaching over and giving the contents of the pot a stir before they could burn. “There must be plenty between here and Maribor.”

“Oh? So now we’re headed to Maribor?”

“Aren’t we?” Jaskier countered. “It’s the biggest city between here and Tameria. If we headed to Oxenfurt, I might be able to pull a few favors, but that might be a little too far out of the way to be useful. What?”

Geralt was still staring at him, but there was a softness to the look; as though Jaskier were being ridiculous instead of incredibly helpful. “And just how do you plan to get two horses and a wagon up a mountain?” Geralt asked. “Assuming we somehow raise the funds for this.”

“Oh no,” Jaskier waved a hand. “Those aren’t for getting up the mountain. Those are just to get there. We’ll leave them behind.”

“So, we pull together enough coin,” Geralt began, slicing onions into the pot like anyone else would peel an apple. “To buy a wagon, another horse.”

“Yes.”

“And then abandon them at the foot of the mountain?”

“All right, fine, we sell them to a local farmer.”

“And what if this hypothetical farmer of yours can’t afford to buy it?”

“Then we make it a very generous gift and count it among our good deeds toward righting the world. Honestly Geralt, for being the hero in this narrative, you can be rather slow about these things sometimes.”

The Witcher huffed softly with laughter, shaking his head. “This isn’t one of your made-up stories, Jaskier.”

“Elaborated,” Jaskier held up a hand, and Geralt chuckled again. “I do not _make things up._ I merely garnish the truth a little. Speaking of garnishing, I think I spotted some wild garlic over there earlier. Or possibly deathcamas. Either way, soon find out.”

“Do not pick deathcamas,” Geralt warned, shaking his head as the bard tramped off through the undergrowth, whistling a jaunty tune as he went.

They were two days out from Maribor when they encountered a bedraggled man on the road, the stench of fear reeking off him so strong that even Jaskier could smell it.

“Please, you’ve got to help!” he begged, turning pleading eyes toward Geralt who listened in grim silence while the man recounted stories of a wild beast ravishing their village at nightfall. It sounded like a werewolf to Jaskier or some other sort of therianthrope. Geralt seemed to think so too if the way his hand twitched toward the silver sword at his back was anything to go by.

“We’re less than a day from Brenna,” he murmured, rummaging through Roach’s saddlebags. “Take Ciri and Roach…”

“If it’s less than a day, we can make it on foot,” Jaskier replied, placing his hand over Geralt’s and stopping him from pulling any more elixirs out, realizing that Geralt was intending to shortchange himself on supplies again for their convenience.

“But…”

“Look, we can practically see the harbor from here,” Jaskier said, pointing to where the blue haze of the coast was coming into view, the masts of the fishing ships jutting out over the horizon. “We’ll make it long before nightfall.”

Geralt’s mouth thinned into an unhappy line—thinner than usual.

“Can’t we just come?” Ciri asked behind them.

“No,” Jaskier and Geralt said in unison, and Jaskier felt a momentary pang at watching her shoulders slump. He didn’t like being left behind any more than she did, but he conceded to the necessity of the situation. Even if part of him mourned all the fresh song material he was missing out on.

“We’ll be fine,” Jaskier said, reaching out and giving Geralt a reassuring little nudge. “If you’re not back in a couple of days, we’ll hitch a ride to Maribor and meet you behind the walls.”

He didn’t say what they’d do if Geralt never came back. They never did.

Eventually, Geralt nodded and replaced the potions and compounds back into the saddlebag, pulling Jaskier and Ciri’s meager packs down from Roach’s flanks and handing them both to the bard.

“Don’t dilly dally,” he warned, and Jaskier scoffed.

“Oh please, when do I ever dilly dally? Dally? Sure, but dilly?”

Geralt made a low humming sound that might have been a laugh. “I’ll be back,” he said to Ciri, who didn’t move to hug him like she normally would, and instead started trudging down the road toward Brenna with Jaskier hurrying after her.

She didn’t even look back when Geralt called for them to stay safe, but she did look round at the sound of Roach’s hooves hitting the damp earth at speed; watching Geralt’s back retreat into the woods. Her mouth pursed into a thin, mulish line; her expression traitorously sullen as she looked back up at Jaskier.

“It’s not _fair,_ ” she complained, and Jaskier wrapped a consoling arm around her shoulders, urging her onwards.

“I know.”

“I could help.”

“And I’m sure one day you will. But for now, the best thing you can do is stay safe for him,” Jaskier replied levelly, not wanting to put her down. The Gods alone knew he’d been barely older when she was when he’d first started following Geralt everywhere like a lost puppy; all shiny and new out of academia with about as much innate survival instincts as a chocolate tea kettle. He liked to think he’d become more capable over the years; he knew he had. But he still remembered that feeling of uselessness and wanting to help, even if he didn’t know how.

“You mean out of the way,” Ciri sulked, and Jaskier halted their pace, turning her face up to his with a gentle nudge.

“Yes, sometimes staying safe means staying out of the way. But that doesn’t make it any less helpful of important. Do you want Geralt to have to keep stopping in the middle of a werewolf fight to make sure we’re all right? Because he will, you know. It wouldn’t matter if we suspended you in a cage of silver surrounded by all the armies of the North. He still wouldn’t trust them to keep you safe.”

Ciri looked stricken for a moment, then thoughtful. Eventually, she nodded, and they resumed their trek. After a while she said, quietly, “He trusts you.”

“Well.” Jaskier laughed to cover the fact that he might be about to cry. “Everyone has their off days I suppose. Now.” He clapped his hands and spun around, forcing himself to find the showmanship energy he usually saved for tough crowds. Or Geralt. “Who should we be this time? Master bard and apprentice seeking our fortune on the road? Or wastrel uncle dragging his long-suffering ward across the continent making her beg for coin?”

“What’s the difference?” Ciri asked, and Jaskier felt something very close to paternal pride at the jab.

“Fair point.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh, my gods,” he breathed out. “Geralt was right. You were at Sodden.”
> 
> Yennefer’s head snapped up, her eyes focusing unsteadily on him. “I thought you said he wasn’t here.”
> 
> “He’s not,” Jaskier replied, ignoring her glare as he hopped nimbly over the bar and helped himself to two more cups and a flagon of wine. “He’s out on a contract. Hunting a werewolf.”
> 
> “And you’re here keeping a warm bed for when he gets back?”
> 
> Jaskier shrugged. “Something like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm picking and choosing different elements from the books/game/show at will and blending them together into an amalgamation of "fuck the canon I do what I want". So if there's still any canon purists reading this, I'd apologize but you staggered into this Witcher fanfic named after a Carly Simon song and that's on you :P

It was late the following evening, too late, in all honesty, when the door to The Mermaid’s Haunt slammed open, and Jaskier looked up from his composition notes to see a familiar face looking back at him.

Yennefer swayed where she stood, gripping the doorjamb for all she was worth. She did not look well; her eyes blackened and bruised, her olive complexion grey, and it was a good thing the tavern had been deserted for a while, because for one awful moment Jaskier thought she might be a walking phantom.

“Come on, Yen,” another woman appeared by her side, squeezing through the threshold and bracing herself to Yennefer’s side. She was slight, though not as slight as Yennefer, with auburn hair that hung in tangled ringlets around her weary face. They were both mud-spattered, their clothing caked in a layer of ash and grime that didn’t come from merely traveling the roads. 

“Not here…” Yennefer said, her eyes fixed hazily on Jaskier as though she were the one staring at a ghost.

“What?” her companion asked, sounding startled. “Yen, we have to….”

“Not. Here.”

“He’s not here,” Jaskier said in a rush, and the redhead’s eyes snapped toward him. She looked just as worn down as Yennefer did, but her gaze was steady. “That’s why she doesn’t want to come in. She thinks Geralt is here. Here, let me…” He stood to help them, and Yennefer veered back, nearly toppling her companion.

“Keep your hands to yourself, _bard._ ”

“Bard?” the as-yet-unnamed redhead’s expression lifted, and she fixed Jaskier with an inhumanly pretty smile. _Sorceress,_ he realized. Younger than Yennefer; there was something about the eyes, a subtle tell that spoke of decades past, not centuries. But still inhuman. “You must be Jaskier. I’ve heard so much about you. Well, mostly your songs.”

“Triss!” Yennefer protested, but her heart wasn’t in it.

“Oh!” the innkeeper came bustling through from the back, his expression turning from one of congenial greeting to wariness at the sight of the battered women in his doorway. “Can I help you… ladies?”

“A room for the night, and a hot bath if you can?” the woman named Triss asked hopefully, still bearing Yennefer’s weight. “We were set upon on the road and my friend needs to rest.”

It was an unconvincing lie, unconvincingly told.

“Well, I uh.” The innkeeper cleared his throat. “I can oblige with the bath, but I’m afraid our last room was taken last night.” He turned furtive eyes toward Jaskier, and the bard had the feeling the universe was playing one of its cruel tricks on him again.

He sighed. “If you can arrange for a pallet to be brought up, my friends can have the bed.”

“Oh, do you know them, Master Bard?” the innkeeper’s expression brightened incrementally.

“We’re acquainted,” Jaskier replied, turning his gaze back to Yennefer. “From Court. It was the Mayor of Rinde who introduced us, wasn’t it?”

Yennefer managed a smile, a wild feral thing. “Yes, it was quite the party…”

“Court indeed,” the innkeeper said thoughtfully, taking in his guests with fresher eyes. True, their attire had seen better days, but there was serious coin lurking under all that muck and grime. “Of course, yes, I’ll get the bath set up right away. Do you require a healer?” he asked, and Triss shook her head.

“Thank you,” she said to Jaskier as the other man bustled off to take care of business. “I don’t think we could have made it to Maribor.”

“Speak for yourself,” Yen muttered, allowing herself to be helped into a chair nearest the fire, her head rolling back listlessly on her shoulders.

“I am,” Triss replied tartly. “You’re heavy, and you scared the nice man who let us ride in the back of his cart.”

“Then you should have left me where you found me,” the other sorceress hissed back, her violet eyes sliding shut. “I’ve burned myself out.”

“You don’t know that. You might just need to rest.” Triss reached over to take her hand, and Jaskier knew something was seriously wrong when Yennefer didn’t pull back.

“Oh, my gods,” he breathed out. “Geralt was right. You _were_ at Sodden.”

Yennefer’s head snapped up, her eyes focusing unsteadily on him. “I thought you said he wasn’t here.”

“He’s not,” Jaskier replied, ignoring her glare as he hopped nimbly over the bar and helped himself to two more cups and a flagon of wine. “He’s out on a contract. Hunting a werewolf.”

“And you’re here keeping a warm bed for when he gets back?”

Jaskier shrugged. “Something like that.”

“How sweet.” She laughed mockingly, but even that was without her usual venom. If anything, she just sounded sad. “You two always were living in each other’s pockets.”

“Yes,” Jaskier said mildly, handing both cups to Triss, just to be petty about it. “It’s nice to have friends like that. Jaskier, by the way.” He reached out a hand to Triss, turning the shake into a florid little bow when she accepted his hand. “I believe you said you’ve heard of me, which makes you my second favorite person in the room right now.”

“I’m touched,” Yen drawled, clearly knowing he’d been referring to himself.

The redhead laughed, looking up at him from under thick, golden lashes. “Triss Merigold. And don’t worry, it’s mostly good things.”

“Then I’m afraid you’ve been lied to,” Jaskier replied, earning himself another laugh.

“I know you’re a friend of Geralt of Rivia, and the White Wolf doesn’t make friends lightly. That’s all I care to know,” Triss replied, slumping down on the bench next to Yennefer, and draining her cup dry. “I don’t suppose there was any food behind that counter? I can’t remember the last time I ate…”

“Oh, hold on, let me see.” Jaskier darted behind the counter again, but when his search proved fruitless, he dipped into the kitchen instead. “Where’s Fiona?” he asked, and the cook turned toward him with cheerful eyes.

Cooks always liked Jaskier. He made a point of befriending them wherever he went on the basis that if he was singing for his supper, it paid well to be friends with the person dishing it out. He’d passed through this place several times over the years now, and while the owner of the inn had changed, Bertha the cook had not. She’d welcomed him readily and given him an arch look at the appearance of Ciri hanging back close behind him.

“I always knew you’d get some fancy girl in mischief one day,” she’d said later when Ciri was out of earshot. And Jaskier had shrugged and hadn’t bothered to dissuade her of the notion. His reputation as a rake was well deserved, though Jaskier had always gone to great lengths to keep from giving his parents the grandchildren they’d so ardently pestered him for. But if Bertha wanted to believe Ciri was his natural-born child from an indiscretion on his part, then at least she also believed that Jaskier was doing the right thing by taking care of her.

And besides, it added to their cover story. The bastard child of a wandering bard was less remarkable than the lost lion cub of Cintra.

“I sent her out to pick moon thistles with Mary in the garden,” Bertha replied, nodding toward the open door where the gentle sound of the ocean and the sleeping town drifted in on a cool sea breeze, accompanied by the tinkling sound of children at play. “Little night lark that she is. Do you need her?”

Ciri had become something of a night owl these last few weeks. Especially when Geralt was gone. Jaskier was just glad she had the company of someone closer to her own age for a change, rather than just him.

“No, just so long as I know where she is,” Jaskier replied, plucking a fresh load of bread from the cooling tray and peering into the pot simmering over the fire.

“Here, didn’t I feed you already?” Bertha protested.

“Most adequately, Mistress, I assure you,” Jaskier replied, finding two wooden bowls and helping himself to the stew. “But these are for my friends. They’ve just arrived, attacked by bandits no less, and are in sore need of sustenance and respite. I have no doubt your culinary skills with mutton will restore their spirits posthaste.”

Bertha clucked her tongue at him, shaking her head wryly as she continued to roll out the pastry she was working. “You don’t half lay it on thick, do you, Mister Bard?”

Jaskier winked filching some dried meat and smoked cheese from the pantry as he went. “That’s the idea.”

Bertha waved him away. “I’ll send Mary out with some sweetmeats in a bit.”

“Thank you.” He walked back out the kitchen door, carrying his laden tray carefully. “I didn’t know what you liked so I grabbed er, everything.”

“Thank you,” Triss said, pulling herself out of the slump she’d fallen into against the table. Yennefer didn’t move, her head still tipped back on her shoulders. She may well have been asleep for all Jaskier could tell, but she moved eventually, seemingly almost in a trance as she picked up a piece of the bread Jaskier cut up for them and dipped it into her cup of wine to soften the crust. It was the kind of thing peasants did with the dark grain they used to tide them through the winter, and Jaskier suddenly wondered where Yennefer had picked up a habit like that.

“So… what happened?” he said after what he considered a polite amount of silence had been allowed to pass. “Every report I've heard says Sodden was a massacre… fourteen mages dead…”

“Thirteen,” Triss corrected, a hand going absently to her chest, where Jaskier noticed the much deeper stains that marked her cloak and tunic. “But it was close.”

“I heard a meteor struck,” Jaskier supplied, reaching for his wine cup. “Fire reigning down from the sky, wiping out everything in its path. They're calling it an act of the Gods.”

“Not quite,” Triss replied, glancing hesitantly to Yennefer.

“Really? People said they could see it for miles around, the whole battlefield lit up like a beacon.”

“Oh, that part was true.” The mage reached up to touch her tangled mess of auburn hair self-consciously, and Jaskier realized that parts of it were singed. “But it wasn’t a meteor.”

Jaskier glanced between them both. Eventually, Yen turned her face up toward him, and realization struck. “Oh, my Gods,” he breathed out, sitting back in his chair as far as the hardwood would allow. “It was you! You were the meteor!”

Yennefer offered him a wan smile. It was not a pleasant expression. “Surprised? The Nilfgaardian’s certainly were.” She lifted her hands up to her face, blinking at them as though she’d never seen them before. The skin was raw and pink, and Jaskier realized that she didn’t have any nails left. “Turns out, unleashing total chaos comes with a price, though.” She laughed dryly, reaching up to touch the corner of her eyes and squinting past Jaskier’s head. “Who knew…”

Seeing Jaskier’s confused expression, Triss leaned forward, lowering her voice. “Staring into the fire took her sight… it took all the magic I had left to try and save it but…” she trailed off, biting her lip.

“Blind?” Jaskier mouthed, and Triss winced.

“I can still hear you know,” Yennefer replied tartly. “And I can see enough to know you still don’t know how to dress. I’d recognize those garish colors anywhere.”

It was just at that moment when Ciri came running in, a tray of fragrant sweetmeats and small cakes held between both hands. “Bertha says to give you this—” she faltered as both women turned to look at her “—oh, hello…”

“Hello,” Triss said, and Jaskier gestured Ciri forward.

“It’s all right. They’re friends.” He eyed Yennefer warily. “Sort of. This is Fiona. My niece.”

“Hello, Fiona,” Triss smiled warmly despite her clear exhaustion. “I’m Triss, and this is Yen. Your uncle has kindly offered to let us stay in your room tonight if that’s all right?”

Ciri’s eyes grew wide, darting between both women. “Yen… Geralt’s Yen? The one he talks about in his sleep?”

An awkward silence fell over the adults, and Jaskier realized he would have to be the one to break it. “Yes, that Yen.”

“What is _she_ doing here?” Ciri demanded with unexpected venom, and Yen sat back in her chair as though struck.

“Ciri,” Jaskier cursed himself for a fool and corrected himself. “ _Fiona._ Please go play outside. Or upstairs. Go read the book I bought you.”

“No.”

“Fiona.”

“But I—”

“ _Go to your room_ ,” Jaskier cut her off sternly, hating how much it made him sound like his father.

Ciri eyed him venomously, her jaw working as she tried to stare him down. When he refused to blink, she stomped her way up the stairs. “Fine, but one day I won’t be a child, and you _won’t_ be able to tell me what to do anymore.”

“Looking forward to it,” Jaskier replied, rubbing at his temples, and wincing when she slammed the door open and shut, followed by several shouted complaints from the other occupants.

“Well, well,” Yen spoke into the silence, reaching over the table for her wine cup and giving Jaskier an arch look in his general direction. “He finally claimed her then. His child surprise. And you’re what? Playing house? How quaint, the odd couple and their child of destiny.”

Jaskier eyed her in return. He wanted to say something cruel and biting, but he knew Geralt wouldn’t like it, so he swallowed it down. He’d likely spit it out at her later, but he could at least wait till she wasn’t on the verge of passing out and barely holding herself together through sheer force of will.

“Yes, he needed some help. Turns out, Witchering isn’t all that conducive to child-rearing. Especially not one being hunted. There’s a doppler after her. Among other things.”

“A doppler,” Triss blinked. “But dopplers are friendly…”

“Not this one.” Jaskier picked up his own cup, eyeing the contents thoughtfully and wondering just how much he should tell them. He blinked up at them suddenly, staring at the two women with wide eyes as he scrambled for Geralt’s silver dagger hanging on his belt loop. “Sorry,” he said, reaching over the table lightning-quick and pressing the flat of the blade to the back of Yennefer’s hand. The sorceress pulled away in surprise, but otherwise unharmed.

“What the—”

“Sorry. Just checking…” Across from him, Triss held her hand out compliantly, and Jaskier did the same. When nothing happened, he sagged back in relief, his heart thundering a mile a minute in his chest. How could he have been so _stupid?_

“Silver first, _then_ help,” he murmured. He was tired, that was the problem. He slept when Geralt was around, but it was fitful and sparse. It would be a welcome relief to find himself in the ruined sanctuary of Kaer Morhen come winter. Provided they got there on time. At least there he wouldn’t have to worry about anyone sneaking up on them. Not unless they could scale a sheer cliff face like a mountain goat and infiltrate a Witcher keep. Then they deserved to slit his throat.

The innkeeper bustled back in, beaming at his guests. “Your bath is ready, ladies. I had the boy leave extra buckets of water.” He eyed their clothing tactfully. “If you like, we do a laundry service…”

“Yes, please,” Triss said, standing up and preparing to help Yennefer to her feet. “That would be lovely. Tell me, is there an apothecary nearby?”

“End of the row, on the south lane,” the innkeeper replied helpfully.

“Thank you.”

There was a crash from the kitchens, as kitchens were often wont to do, night or day, and he hurried off again, waving his hands animatedly.

“Right, come on you,” Triss said. “You’ll feel better after a bath.”

“I doubt it,” Yennefer grumbled but allowed herself to be helped up. “Don’t.” She said to Jaskier when he moved to help them again, and the bard held his hands up.

“All right, fine. I’ll just move the food into our room. Save you coming back down later.”

 _And apologize to Ciri,_ he thought, wondering just how much money he had left and whether he might be able to bribe her with another book. He knew one thing for sure, Geralt’s return was going to be far more eventful than previously anticipated.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Unhand me, bard!”
> 
> “Gladly,” Jaskier replied, and unceremoniously dumped her into the bathtub.
> 
> Wet, bedraggled, and her dignity damaged beyond all repair, Yennefer glowered up at him. “I hate you.”
> 
> “Trust me, the feeling’s mutual,” Jaskier replied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen, if you thought I wasn't going to sale this crack-fick directly into the ot3 "Ciri has two dads, one mom and a fun wine aunt" sun, you have another thing coming.  
> Also possible warning for dubious non-sex related consent? I don't want to tag it as dub!con cause I feel that's too extreme, but you should know Jaskier takes it upon himself to be nice to Yennefer and help her against her wishes. Cause goodness knows, someone needs to be kind to Yen without using her for an ulterior motive, and Geralt's got a terminal case of "open mouth insert foot" disease so I'm afraid Jaskier is about to get shredded from all the emotional lifting he's about to do. Gods love him.

“We can’t stay here,” Yen hissed frantically between chattering teeth, already shivering despite the warmth of the room and still wearing all her clothes. “I _won’t_ stay here, not if he’s coming back…”

Triss would have rolled her eyes, but even that felt beyond her limited capacity for expending energy. “Whatever you say. We’ll move on tomorrow, head to Maribor and wait for Tissaia there. But we need at least one night’s sleep. I don’t know about you, but I couldn’t sleep in the back of that cart.”

Yen didn’t reply. She was too busy staring at her blackened eyes in the tarnished mirror that hung by the door. The violet hue of her irises was still there, but it was hard to tell under the mass of broken blood vessels and the milky white film that had formed. Triss took it as a good sign that they were healing. After all, blood meant _blood flow,_ and there was still a chance the other woman might regain her full sight.

There would have been an even higher chance if Triss hadn’t been forced to use most of her energy to keep herself alive. But Yennefer was strong. Even if she currently didn’t look like it.

“They were the only thing I asked him to keep,” she said after a while, oblivious as Triss began to strip off, throwing her ruined clothes into an empty basket behind the door and submerging herself in the warm water. It was tepid at best, but it would have to do.

“Who?” Triss asked, trying in vain to work her fingers through the tangled knots in her hair, but already resigned to shearing most of it off.

“The Enchanter, in Aretuza,” Yennefer replied, still just as numbly. But at least now she was speaking. She’d been virtually catatonic when Triss had found her.

Triss watched as Yen raised her fingers to the amulet at her throat. The metal had burned into her flesh during the fire, marking her forever with the sigil it bore. Triss had tried to heal it away, but there was only so much she’d been able to do when she’d found Yennefer wandering the now ashen wastes of Sodden, blinded by her own power. Quite literally.

“They’ll heal,” Triss said quietly, scrubbing her skin clean with the caustic lye soap, and examining her own near misses with death. She touched the angry mark beneath her collarbone, lamenting that she’d likely never be able to wear a dress with a low neckline ever again. But considering she’d awoken with a blade stuck in her chest, conceded it was a small price to pay to still be breathing.

“You don’t know that,” Yennefer replied, shaking her head.

“No, but I’m damn well going to try. You’re not the only powerful mage here, Yennefer of Vengerberg,” Triss replied levelly, hauling herself out of the now murky water, and eyeing it with disdain. She wished she had a fraction of her magic left to cleanse it. Perhaps the bard could be persuaded to fetch and carry buckets. He seemed like an obliging fellow… Handsome too. And far more robust than Triss had been expecting.

“I’m not even sure I’m that anymore,” Yennefer murmured, and Triss finished wrapping a bath sheet around her body to place a consoling hand on Yennefer’s shoulder.

“You did what none of us thought was possible. You wielded pure chaos and lived. Give yourself time…” When Yen didn’t respond, Triss knelt beside her and began undoing the ties of her dress, hoping she had enough energy left in her aching muscles to lift the other woman in and out. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up and into bed. You’ll feel better soon. I promise…”

In the next room, Jaskier was beginning to understand why some species of animals ate their own young.

“She hurt Geralt,” Ciri said again, as though if she said it often enough, she’d win by wearing Jaskier down.

“I know,” Jaskier said, not for the first or likely last time since this conversation had started. “Believe me, no one knows that better than I do. I was there.” _He hurt me too…_ “But people make mistakes. There were a lot of things going on. What with the dragon and the… the stuff.” He gestured ineffectively.

Ciri made a low humming growl of a sound that was all too familiar, and Jaskier threw his hands up in the air. “What should I have done? Turn them away because we don’t like that they hurt Geralt?”

“Yes,” Ciri replied hotly, and Jaskier fought hard to regain his composure. He was suddenly very much aware of how frustrated his own father must have been. Teenagers were quite possibly the worst.

“Look, I don’t like this any more than you do, but don’t you think Geralt should get to decide if he wants to talk to her or not? And what about Triss? She seems…”

“Pretty,” Ciri supplied acidly, and Jaskier faltered, holding up a finger.

“I was going to say friendly. So there.” When Ciri continued to glower at him, Jaskier sat down on the pallet bed opposite her, letting his head hang between his shoulders. “Come on, little lion cub, work with me here. I’m just trying to do what any decent sort of person would do… You saw the mess in Cintra… by all accounts, Sodden is worse. It’s a miracle either of them are alive.”

_A miracle. Or fate…._

Hadn’t Geralt only said the day before that he’d been hoping to find Yennefer? Perhaps there was some truth to Yennefer’s belief that the djinn had bound them together. Or maybe it was Ciri, he thought, looking up into those pale blue-gray eyes, seeing the turbulent flashes of power hidden underneath.

The child of destiny drawing them all together.

Jaskier knew she had magic, of a kind—he’d seen her mother’s own display of unbridled chaos all those years ago. And from what Geralt said, Ciri had inherited it, even if she didn’t seem to know it just yet. Perhaps the mages could help with that. And that too was all very neat and convenient. Like the playwright of the universe had decided to hurry things along for the sake of brevity. Largely at Jaskier’s expense.

He was just about to try again when there was a loud crash from the bathing room next door, and he started up onto his feet with Ciri close behind him. The door swung open to reveal both women lying on the floor in a wet tangle of bath sheets that would have made a much younger Jaskier very happy, but right now was just mildly exasperated by.

“Oh, for goodness sake. Honestly, what is it with you all-powerful types. You never know when to just bloody ask for help. Right, come here, you.” He stooped down to scoop a struggling Yennefer from the floor, the mage spitting curses at him as she kicked and wriggled with admirable gusto for someone who had struggled to lift her own head up earlier.

“Unhand me, _bard_!”

“Gladly,” Jaskier replied, and unceremoniously dumped her into the bathtub.

Wet, bedraggled, and her dignity damaged beyond all repair, Yennefer glowered up at him. “I hate you.”

“Trust me, the feeling’s mutual,” Jaskier replied, reaching down to help Triss up, who stood with a groan and a wince, bracing her side. “That doesn’t look good,” he said, indicating the wound on her chest. “Should I send for the healer after all? I think we have some of Geralt’s potions…”

“No, thank you,” Triss shook her head. “I’ll be fine. I just… I clearly need to rest more than I realized. I can manage the rest from here…” She made to move toward the side of the bathtub again and barely managed to suppress a whimper of pain.

“All right, that’s it, you—” he pointed a finger at Triss “—go lie down. Fiona, keep an eye on our friend. Maybe ask Bertha for some clean linens. And you…” He turned back to face Yennefer. “Let’s get this over with.”

“Get what over with?” Yennefer asked, her eyes growing wide when Jaskier retrieved the stool she’d been sitting on and set it down by the tub. “Oh.” She scoffed loudly. “You must be _dreaming._ ”

“If I am, it’s a _fucking nightmare_ ,” Jaskier ground out, stripping out of his already damp doublet, and rolling up his shirt sleeves.

“If you so much as lay another finger on me—”

“You’ll what, turn me into a toad?” Jaskier held up his hands. “All right, fine. I won’t help. I’ll just sit here and make sure you don’t drown.”

Yennefer continued to glower at him, and Jaskier sighed, swiveling around on the stool to stare at the blank wall. “Happy?”

“No.” But she didn’t say anything else, and after a few moments, Jaskier heard the tentative sounds of movement. After several minutes passed, she made a soft, pained noise, and Jaskier fought the urge to turn around.

“Everything okay?”

“Yes,” she snapped back instantly, then hesitated. “No…”

“What’s wrong?”

When she spoke again, her voice was so small Jaskier could barely hear it over the cheerful crackling of the fire. “My hair. I can’t lift my arms …”

Jaskier turned round slowly, careful to keep his expression neutral. Yen had always been slight, but she’d never looked small before. He couldn’t see her expression, but the hunched line of her shoulders spoke volumes.

“Do you want me to do it?” She shook her head, then slowly, haltingly nodded. “All right.”

He was just about to reach for the pitcher at the side of the basin when her hand shot out, gripping him by the wrist. “I’m not weak,” she said, and Jaskier found himself staring into the violet depths of her bloodshot eyes.

“I never said you were,” he replied, wriggling his fingers, but making no move to break free from her grasp. Whatever this was about, it wasn’t just about hair washing. She studied his face for a while longer, then, seemingly satisfied, let go. Freed, Jaskier filled the pitcher with clean water and began rinsing it through her hair, gently combing out the snares with his fingers. It was far from a pleasant experience, but Jaskier had combed worse from Geralt’s hair over the years, what was a little more blood and ash on his fingertips?

After a while the motion became trancelike, and Jaskier found himself humming as he zoned out. He wasn’t sure why, but taking care of others like this had always been soothing. He enjoyed it far more than he enjoyed taking care of himself, which was saying something because Jaskier definitely enjoyed the finer things in life.

“The water’s cold,” Yennefer said after a short while, and Jaskier moved automatically. He threw another log onto the fire and retrieved one of the extra buckets left by the hearth. The water was still warm, though only just, and Jaskier murmured an apology as he tipped it into the bath.

This time when he sat down, he found his wrist entrapped by her fingers again, but gentler this time. “I’m not weak,” she said again.

“I know,” he said, and gently wiggled his hand free. He reached for the bar of soap and began lathering it in his hands. The lye would turn her hair as brittle as straw, but it was better than nothing. “For what it’s worth, you’re still absolutely terrifying,” he said after a while, and Yennefer huffed softly with laughter. 

“Good,” she said, sounding more like her old self, even as she leaned back into his touch. “Don’t you forget it.”

Getting her out of the bath was a whole other ordeal in (im)mortal embarrassment all by itself, but after Jaskier pointed out he’d already seen her fully naked in much worse circumstances, Yennefer yielded and allowed him to help her out the tub. When she was no longer dripping everywhere, he helped her hobble next door into their room, covered by a spare bath sheet.

“Oh good, she didn’t drown you,” Tris said when they entered, prying herself up from her comfortable lounge on the bed, and slipping Yen’s other arm over her shoulders. “I got worried when things went quiet.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t from lack of wanting,” Jaskier replied, relenting his hold on Yen, but still hovering awkwardly until he was sure neither woman was about to fall again.

When Yen was sitting firmly on the edge of the bed, she turned bloodshot eyes toward Ciri, who stared back unflinchingly. “Hello, Cirilla. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

“Is it?” Ciri asked, waspishly.

“Believe it or not, it actually is. Geralt talked a lot about you. Mostly he talked about how he wasn’t ready to take care of a child. But I see he found you a suitable nursemaid.”

Ciri’s mouth twitched, but she wasn’t about to be won over so easily. “Uncle Jaskier isn’t a nursemaid. He’s a master bard. And a professor. He’s teaching me how to play the lute.”

“Uncle Jaskier.” Yennefer wrinkled her nose, though whether in amusement of distaste Jaskier couldn’t tell. He didn’t particularly care, he was too busy focusing on the fact that Ciri had called him “uncle” with no real need to other than she apparently wanted to show her allegiance and defend him. It was nearly more than his fragile heart could take. “Good grief. But I suppose it’s better than calling him ‘Professor Pankratz’. That would just be insufferable.”

Ciri frowned. “Why on earth would I do that?”

“Because that’s his name. Julian Alfred Pankratz.”

“Is that another one of your aliases?” Ciri asked, and Jaskier sighed, slouching into the only chair in the room; a rickety wooden thing that ensured he would be getting exactly _zero_ sleep tonight.

“No. That is, unfortunately, my real name.”

“That can’t be your real name,” Ciri replied, still frowning. “There’s only one Pankratz left, and he’s a Viscount. Wait a minute.” Her eyes grew wide. “Are you a Viscount?!”

Jaskier waved a hand in the air. “An unfortunate happenstance of birth.”

“Why am I only finding this out just now?”

“Because you only just asked,” Jaskier replied, shooting a half-hearted glare at Yennefer.

“Does Geralt know?”

“I’m fairly certain I told him.” Jaskier frowned in thought. “Though that doesn’t mean he was listening at the time. So possibly not.” He held up a hand to forestall any further questions. “Look, you can quiz me all about it in the morning. But for now? Please try and sleep. Geralt will be back tomorrow, and I’m sure he’ll want to move on as quickly as possible.”

“Yes,” Triss said, just a touch brittlely, her smile frozen neatly in place as she pulled the covers over her lap. “I’m sure he will.”

Yennefer didn’t say anything. Instead, she moved stiffly, climbing her way up the bed toward the headboard. She was halfway under the covers, her bath sheet discarded onto the floor when she looked up, frowning at Jaskier as he got up to retrieve it. “The girl has a pallet, but where are you sleeping?”

“Oh, I don’t sleep,” Jaskier replied, offering her a wan, exhausted smile. “Not unless Geralt is around. I told you,” he lowered his voice further, hoping his words would be lost in the crackle of the fire and the rustling Ciri was making as she climbed under the thin blanket of her pallet. “There’s things hunting her.”

“And you mean to guard against them all night long?” Yennefer asked just as softly, crooking a delicate eyebrow at him.

“I always do,” Jaskier replied, then blew out the candle on the bedside table, plunging the room into the banked glow of the hearth and deepening shadows as he resumed his place in the seat by the door.

But unlike other nights, the silence was made brittle by strangeness, and Jaskier knew that despite their exhaustion, none of the other occupants of the room were asleep. So, he did the only thing that felt natural and began to hum quietly, filling the silence with the gentle sound of half-remembered lullabies and fragments of song that lent themselves well to comfort and calm, all the while letting his thoughts turn over in his head. He had no idea how Geralt was going to react to any of this. But at least he supposed it couldn’t be any worse than the time he’d taught Ciri _the song._

Eventually, when he was near certain Ciri at least was asleep—the sound of her breathing gentle and steady—Jaskier let the final note fade away in the back of his throat and allowed the softer silence to resume.

It was only when he got up to stoke the fire just past the fourth hour after midnight that he realized Yennefer was still awake, her damaged eyes fixed on him in the darkness.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, so quietly Jaskier wasn’t sure he’d even heard it. And then she rolled over to face Triss, turning her back to him.

Jaskier thought about replying, but decided sometimes, silence was enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you tumblr, for continuing to exploit your direct line to my lack of impulse control. It's always fun.


End file.
